Tiphaïne went on with her singing.
“Devil take the woman!” And he pushed on after her, not knowing for the moment how to meet her tactics.
Tiphaïne stood in a pool of waving grass, where bluebells touched the hem of her gray gown. Great oaks, with tops of burnished gold, swept up beyond to touch the clouds. She reached out a white arm for the flowers, seeing the shadow of Croquart’s horse loom towards her over the grass. He was quite close before she turned and faced him, keeping her palfrey between her and the Fleming.
“Well, Messire Croquart,” and she gave him the title with a curl of the lip, “am I to believe that you have no manners?”
“A truce to this foolery.”
“I tell you, I am tired, sir, and I am going to rest.”
Croquart bit his beard.
“I shall have to dismount to you, madame.”
Her eyes blazed out at him, their splendor more visible now that she was angry.
“Dismount to me, you butcher boy from Flanders! No, that would be too gracious of you. Please continue to forget your manners.”